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Out on the thin, vast plain of sand
bodies, hurled with glee, run.

Listing I see:
Fish, trapped in pools, wait for the tide.
Rocks, dotting the bar, lay dark and unhurried.
The creek, cutting the sand, ripples downward.
Gulls, huddled under gray skies, exist.

And crashing comes energy, pent up
for miles of open seas, to lay finally
like a soft kiss on the shore,
like a mysterious voice
that says come, go, come, go.

What are these things, these ordinary wonders?
(The kids are still running, skipping, skimming.)
Are we not in communion,
in the very language itself,
of a great wind, a voice,
a pillar of fire?
Are we not, then, inside
the breath of God?

*photos taken on the Oregon coast July 20&21, 2008. Poem written July 21&22.